


102 - Reader is a Super Famous Singer

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-10 22:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17434859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “one when the girl Van is with is like an super famous singer or something and they meet and start dating, but he feels a bit confused as to why she chose him, a guy in a rock band, when she is a massive a-lister with tonnes of fans. Like Van feels like she is so out of his league and he got so lucky, but she loves him back and they are both happy?” and “Van falling for another touring singer. Maybe they play the same festival and he falls for you while watching backstage etc.”





	102 - Reader is a Super Famous Singer

You were tired and just wanted a fucking nap. It was not too much to ask for. You stalked through all the backstage areas and rolled your eyes at the fuss being made about the 'rock stars' on tour. Every time someone moved to come to you, you ducked out of their way. You found a tent that had yoga classes in it in the morning. You were worried if you went inside someone would ask if you wanted some culturally appropriated henna tattoos. You cautiously peeked in. There were a few people lying around on bean bags holding small and quiet conversation. Perfect. There were couches that you could stretch out on completely, but they were all occupied. Only one of the occupants wasn't asleep. You walked over to him. He was in a white button up tucked into black jeans and boots. He was on his phone.

"Sorry. Hi," you said. He looked up at you and his smile was instant. You smiled back, unable to do anything else. There were a good few seconds before you stopped grinning at each other like idiots.

"Hi," he replied finally.

"I was wondering if maybe you'd share your couch with me? I just… I need a nap so bad," you asked. You weren't trying to make your voice sound cute, but it came out that way. Even you could hear the adorableness of I need a nap so bad. You could see the guy visibly melt a bit, like he'd just witnessed a kitten and a fully grown doggo become best friends. He nodded. "Yeah? I'm just going to grab one of them blankets then," you said. When you returned from the pile of blankets he was sitting up. "Oh, you don't have to sit up, we can…" There was no way of explaining how you could coexist on the couch without it sounding way too intimate.

"Cuddle?" he finished for you. Yeah. Way too intimate. You didn't know how to respond, and your face just grinned again. You bit your lip. "I'm good with that." He kicked his feet back up on the couch and laid on his side to make room for you. You positioned yourself on the couch on your side too. Your chest was pressed against his and he curled one of his legs between yours and wrapped an arm around your back. "So you don't fall, see," he justified. You nodded and pulled the blanket around both of you. You wriggled down and rested your head against his chest.

Things like that just don't happen in the real world, you thought. You don't just cuddle up with super, super beautiful strangers and feel comfortable. It should have at least been awkward, but it wasn't. That was your life though. After the Rolling Stones cover, that was it. The normality of life could no longer be judged by the standards you were raised with. Nothing would ever be the same. You fell asleep quickly in the guy's arms.

Your nap was ruined by a novelty air horn being sounded too close. You shook awake and would have fallen off the couch if the guy's body wasn't so entwined with yours. You looked up. Two guys were standing over you. One had a hat and held the air horn out. The other was shorter and was trying to not laugh.

"Why?" you whispered, voice still heavy with sleep.

"What the fuck, Bond?" the guy on the couch said. You looked over at him. He pat your head in sympathy; your sleepy dreams a forgotten memory.

"How the fuck did you manage this then?" the air horn guy asked. Your sleeping buddy shot him a look that was a death threat.

"Y/N, this is Johnny Bond and my best mate Larry," he said to you.

"And you're…?" you asked him.

"Van," he said with a grin and a hand out to shake. You were too close to do it properly, but it was an excuse to hold hands that you fully embraced.

"Ya telling me you just fell asleep with a stranger?" Larry asked you.

"I'm just so tired. Just wanted a nap. Then you come here and wake me up and I'm still sleepy. I don't even know you, mate, and you're here with this thing. Why do I have to suffer?" you replied. They laughed. He shrugged, sent Van a look that felt sleazy but somehow didn’t make you feel gross.

"You do have soundcheck, mate," Larry said.

"You're in a band? Me too!" you said to Van.

"Yeah… I know… You're…" he tried to think of what to say. Larry and Bondy hold back laughter. Of course he knew who you were; everyone did. He had called you by your name without you needing to introduce yourself.

"Van, come on. Savour this moment. She's out of your league, mate," Larry said. 

You went to say he wasn't, but you couldn't work out how to not make it sound like flirting. After he said goodbye with a soft smile, and you felt the warmth of his place on the couch slowly turn cold, you kicked yourself. You should have just fucking flirted.

…

It didn't take long to figure out which band he was in; not too many Vans walking around. Van McCann of Catfish and the Bottlemen had a reputation, and it was overwhelmingly positive. Usually well-known people came with a notoriety that you avoided. Your fame was hard enough to handle, let alone association with leather-clad divas. People loved Van though. They said he was honest and hard working. They said he was kind and respectful and oozed passion. His band was playing later in the day, and you'd not be able to see the full set, but you snuck away and watched a few songs from side of stage. You hid behind people the best you could so he'd not see you. 

Their success was well earned. He was amazing. His whole band were. Their sound was tight, and Van knew how to raise a crowd. You'd not heard them before, but you liked the songs. They were sharp and had rises and falls that played out well live. You'd find yourself humming his melodies for days to come.

When you were performing out the front of your band later in the night, in the headlining slot, you saw Van and Larry on one of stage side balconies. You couldn't tell if the love on his face was for the music, or for you. You wanted it to be both. He knew the words, and he was singing along between drags of a cigarette. Before launching into your last song, you thanked the audience. You thanked the festival for having you, and thanked anyone that bought your album or illegally downloaded it.

"We hope you had the best couple of days of your lives," you told the thousands of people as they hung on every word you spoke. "Real good lineup this year, huh?" People cheered. You listed some of the bands that you had ties to, as directed to by the record label. You added, at the very end, "And uh, if you've not heard of this band from the U.K., Catfish and the Bottlemen, you should check them out, yeah? Not even illegally. Give them all your money," you said. Your guitarist laughed. You didn't look up to see Van's reaction before your drummer was counting you in, two, three, four.

…

Everyone was drunk. Very drunk. You, however, were not. You pretended that it was because you'd be up early for more press before flying home, but really you were just over the parties. You made yourself a cup of tea in the catering tent, then went looking for somewhere to sit and smoke. It was hard to move from one place to another without being stopped by people wanting to 'get to know you' or trying to hand you their number or Twitter handles.

You hadn’t even made it five metres from the tent before a guy had wrapped himself around you and was holding his phone up taking a Snapchat video. You smiled politely. Suddenly, an arm was hooked around yours and they were leading you away. "Sorry, mate," they said. "She's got this last minute thing. You know how it is with these rockstars, yeah?"

You looked over at Van and shook your head. "Last minute thing?"

"I think he brought it though," he laughed. He slowed down and you walked along with arms still linked. "Are you drinking tea?" he asked.

"Yes,"

"So, you sleep during the day and drink tea at parties?"

"If you don't like it maybe you should be talking to some other girl,"

"Fuck no. The fact that you even know who I am is a big fucking deal. Ain't saying shit about your weird old person habits, Y/N," he joked. You wanted to laugh too, but his comment unsettled you. You had thought maybe he didn't care that you were… you… famous… whatever. When you didn't reply he stopped walking and looked at you, taking his arm away. "I didn't mean… I don't mean because of your band and stuff. I don't care about any of that. I just… You told everyone to go buy our record. It's only been a few hours and apparently there was a spike in sales. I can probably buy my mum a jacuzzi because of you,"

"I'm sure she deserves it," you replied, unsure of what else to say.

"She does, you don't even know. I don't care about all this, really," he said motioning to the people, the party, the lifestyle. You imagined that he was often misunderstood. His words often not conveying exactly what he meant, his intention distorted where the English language failed him. You had heard that he did not buy into the typical band dude world. You wanted to trust all of that.

"I believe you," you reassured. He studied your face for a moment, and you watched his eyes flick from feature to feature. He slowly started to nod.

"We've snuck into one of the storage tents. They've already packed some of the couches in there. Just smoking and playing cards, I think. Want to come?"

You let Van lead you away from the noise and the chaos to where his band, his friends, were. You sat with them and won a few rounds of poker. They bet with whatever they had in their pockets, so you won a pack of cigarettes, strawberry gum, ten dollars, and a small Captain America toy that came out of a vending machine somewhere. As they night went on, you felt more at home. You internally laughed every time Van tried to work out a new way to have his body touching yours. He cycled through arms around shoulders, hands on knees, and arms touching. Eventually, when you both were out of the game and sitting back on the couch watching, you moved to thread your fingers through his. He quickly held your hand tight and it felt like he'd never ever let you go.

…

Six months later you stepped off an escalator at an airport. There was security all around you, and dozens of people were screaming your name. Your sunglasses, which you hated wearing inside because it made you look like an absolute twat, hid the tears that formed. You tried to smile and wanted to stop to sign photos of yourself, but you weren't allowed to. You told your manager that she had to stay back and offer tickets to those that hadn't already got them. As you jumped into the waiting car, your stomach flipped in sadness. All you wanted was to arrive under the radar and have Van pick you up. You weren't even there for a show or press, or anything to do with the band. You were just spending a couple weeks off with your boyfriend, and even that was a huge fucking ordeal.

Van was waiting outside his house in Cheshire. It was different to last time you'd been there. The garden had been landscaped, and you could see all the flowers and plants that you'd suggested. The driver took your bags inside while Van bundled you up in a long hug. You closed your eyes against his chest and breathed him in. He rocked you side to side, and you felt the tears you'd been holding back finally fall. As the car drove away, Van took you inside. He sat on the couch and you laid next to him, head in his lap. You started to cry, and he patted your hair. You always cried when you saw him. He was the only normal thing in your life, and you didn't get to be with him as much as you wanted, or needed. And fuck, did you need him.

When you calmed down, you sat up and smiled at him. "Hi," you said, the first words you'd spoken.

"Hey darlin'. How are you?"

You shrugged and climbed onto him. You kissed and let his hands ran across any part of you that he wanted.

You stayed home all day and all night. You cooked a normal meal together, and watched normal television, and smoked normal tobacco and weed outside under a normal sky. You recalled the first time you ever stayed at Van's house. He was nervous and kept saying that it probably wasn't what you were used to. You told him he was right, it wasn't, but it was what you always wanted. It took a long time to convince him that you really, truly were in love with him. It took an equally long time to convince you that he really, truly was in love with you. However, when you were both there, it was done. 

You always slept best in Van's bed, tangled in his inexpensive bed sheets. He kissed a line down your spine as you laid out naked and sleepy. He rubbed his nose against yours, and whispered "Eskimo kiss."

"Butterfly kiss?" you asked, and he fluttered his eyelashes on your cheek. It tickled, and the intimacy was so much that it burnt your insides and made you breathless.

You fell asleep with him and felt good knowing that besides Van there was not a single person in the whole wide world that knew where you were. You existed only to make him smile and to run your fingers through his hair. All the rest of it, it just didn't fucking matter; not compared to him.


End file.
